


If I die before my time, bury me upside down

by ElisAttack



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Fanart, King Stiles Stilinski, Knight Derek, Loyalty, M/M, Protective Derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-06
Updated: 2016-05-06
Packaged: 2018-06-06 17:58:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6764254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElisAttack/pseuds/ElisAttack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The boy is all of sixteen years old, a too large crown of gold resting on his head.  </p><p>The boy is sixteen years old, and Derek knows he would die for him.</p><p>Or the one where Stiles is a young King, barely holding onto power, and Derek is his most trusted knight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If I die before my time, bury me upside down

**Author's Note:**

> This is totally inspired by one of my favourite fics in the fandom and one of the first I've ever read: relenafanel's I Am Your Liege (and for all of you commenting and wanting a continuation of this story, I Am Your Liege is kinda the unofficial continuation, seriously, I wrote this as a prequel to it.)
> 
> I have so many feelings for that fic only 1.5k worth of words and some art can express.
> 
> Title and tone is inspired by the Nicolas Jaar Remix of Cat Power's Cherokee

 

 [Tumblr link to art](http://iamonlydancing.tumblr.com/post/143941755142/the-boy-is-all-of-sixteen-years-old-a-too-large)

 

The boy's father breathes his last the night of the harvest moon.  It is not a peaceful death.  Derek watches the king choke, clawing at his throat as the poison does what it was meant to.  The boy observes from his seat beside the king.  His face is empty of all emotion as he watches the man who raised him, cared for him, loved him, die an excruciating death.

There is nothing the physicians can do, and the king jerks in his throne as the court stares helplessly on.  Derek watches this all from his seat in the banquet hall.  The nobles are reacting in horror, calling for help, clutching at their hair, knowing the favour they won from this king will be lost to the next one.  The only one who cares for the _man_ who dies, not the king, is the boy.  He sits, his back straight in his chair as his father convulses in his throne.  He sits and he holds his father's hand in comfort as the poison kills.  He sits, until his father moves no more.  He sits, and Derek watches a single, solitary tear trail down his cheek.

And then he stands.

The funeral is held the next day at twilight.  The massive blood moon hovers in the sky, like a harbinger for the end.  The boy stands tall, fire in his blood and in his bones.  He possesses a proud lineage, noble and ancient, stretching back further than written history.  His ancestors farmed this land, built the castles he resides in.  The boy is magnificent, as he reads the old king's funeral rites, love and respect in his tone.  He wears the finest black linen robes, and they drape over him, cover him, yet they do not smother him.  A too large crown of gold rests on his head, tipping slightly to the right as he speaks, voice clear and crisp like an apple picked at dawn. 

Derek watches this boy, all of sixteen years old, as he mounts the large mare provided for him.  He steers the horse with his thighs, and she trots behind the retinue carrying the body.  He sits straight in his royal saddle. 

The boy knows he is alone, none will support him.  He is young, and his mother's brother is power hungry and wealthy.  The nobles do not publically endorse him as they did his father.  Instead they treat him as they always have done: a child, a means to an end.

The boy knows he will be assassinated within the fortnight.  The boy knows it, and yet he still carries himself like a king.

The nobles squabble amongst themselves, demanding land they claim they are owed, calling for a private audience with the king to demand and gripe.  They are insatiable and conniving, they want all they can take before the boy is deposed, all they can squeeze before they finally decide to pour a vial of poison into his cup. 

He requests an audience with the king as well, but he asks to go last.  What he desires is not something the king is in short supply of. 

Eventually, he is summoned to the throne room.

He walks slowly to the boy's throne and kneels before him, head bowed in deference.  The boy presents his hand, and Derek takes it, pressing a reverential kiss to the signet ring.  His soft hands smell of peppermint and ink, overwhelmingly so.  It floods Derek's senses even after he pulls away.  Men in this world smell of sweat and death, the boy does not, he smells of a young life on the cusp of manhood, he smells of knowledge well earned. 

As the boy drums his fingers on his knee, long fingers and limbs moving with intention, Derek knows in his gut he will bring a once unattainable peace to the land.

"Ser Derek."  The boy says with not a hint of defeat in his tone, even after days of audiences with ungrateful nobles, "What do you desire of me in return for your support?"

Derek remains kneeling, long after a less humble noble would have risen to his feet.  His head stays bowed as he relays his simple wants.  "I wish to remain by your side, my King.  To have a position in your court.  I wish to protect you from all who would seek to harm you.  That is all I desire, or deserve, of you, my King."

The boy's voice reveals a hint of surprise when he speaks, "Rise to your feet, Ser."  Derek quickly obeys, standing with his hands poised behind his back, eyes still lowered in respect.  "You were never a fervent supporter of my father, and yet you want to remain by my side?"  The boy scoffs, "Tell me, what time of day would you think it best to slip poison into my wine, the morning meal, or the evening?"

Slowly Derek raises his head until he meets the boy's eyes.  They glow an intelligent amber in the light pouring from the high windows as he gazes upon Derek, suspicion and a hint of amusement swimming within their depths.

"Neither,"  Derek decides, "I would pour poison into the night cup of your enemy, before they delve into slumber, when their doctor is drunk from the evening's feasting, and their guards are asleep."

The boy's smile is slow to appear, but when it does, it slides onto his face, stretching his lips knowingly,  "Good answer."  He looks over Derek's features, eyes wandering down his body, flitting over his fine velvet doublet, his soft leather boots, the thick golden rings adorning his fingers.  "The Hale holdings are rich and plentiful, the serfs are hardy and perform well.  The soil is fertile.  During my father's reign, you chose to remain on your lands, only appearing when it was required of you."  He tilts his head to the side, "You have not returned to your land in months, why is that?"

"I am here."  Derek says simply, unable to look away from the boy's eyes now that he has been captured by their captivating depths.

"And so you are, why?"  The boy asks with purpose, crossing his legs and resting an arm on the throne as he leans back, the very picture of authority.

Derek bows slightly as he offers, "To serve you, my King."

The boy looks at him with a critical eyes, "Who cares for the Hale holdings in your place?"

"My sisters."

The boy hums.  His finger taps delicately against the pale, mole covered skin of his neck.  His royal signet ring catches the light of dawn, flashing golden.  "Very well, you may remain in court.  For now."  He waves his hand, dismissing Derek, "Leave me."

"My King."  Derek bows lowly and long, before turning on his heels and departing from the throne room. 

A group of nobles stand in the hall, just outside the large wooden door.  They gather in a shadowed alcove to whisper their misdeeds.  One looks at him and points, and they all nod their heads in agreement.  Derek walks past and does not acknowledge when one calls out a devious greeting.  They are false in their offered friendship, and he is tired of falseness.

He receives the first letter that night.  It slides like a whisper beneath his threshold.  The messenger disappears faster than they appeared, afraid to be identified as a traitor.  Derek opens the letter and quickly scans over the writing.  The curving script offers him holdings, castles, wealth more than he could ever imagine, so long as he turns his blade on his king.

Derek holds the letter over the candle fire until it catches, smoking, and burning bright.  He watches in pleasure as the ink burns blue, the malevolent words disappearing forever.  He drops the remaining charred parchment and crushes it to dust beneath his heel.  Every single letter sent after, he burns and does not bother opening.

Day and night, Derek stands proudly behind his king, his armour polished and shining, a hand resting on the pommel of his blade.  His king is tall and dignified, he is unwavering and strong.  He carries himself like a king should.  He is just and fair as he speaks to his people, hears their concerns, listens with an attentive ear.  He is everything Derek could ever want in a ruler.

His king is sixteen years old, a too large crown of gold, resting on his head. 

His king is sixteen years old and Derek knows he would die for him.

**Author's Note:**

> Leave a comment, tell me whatcha think :)


End file.
